


Only Eight Years

by DeanJHarrison



Series: World History (And Pay Attention, You Will Be Graded) [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angels, Christianity, Demons, Fallen Angels, Heaven, Hell, History, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Part of a 6000-year long slow burn, Pre-Slash, romans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-24 19:07:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20019526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeanJHarrison/pseuds/DeanJHarrison
Summary: "What was it he said that got everyone so upset?""Be kind to each other."





	Only Eight Years

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FayJay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FayJay/gifts).



> For FayJay, my favourite podfic-er and fic writer, and by consequence, the voicing narrative of this in my head as I wrote it.

Crowley was a demon. A fact of which no one would argue. The argument instead, therefore, would be that as a demon, Crowley knew better than anyone else what unfairness was.

The unfairness in that argument, however, would be that Crowley knew what unfairness was because he was the chef of it, passing out dishes of it with delight as he watched it poison the humans. When in actuality, he knew it so well because it was his experience of it that made him a bloody demon in the first place.

He heard rumours when the baby was born, and then was drawn in when the humans began kicking up a fuss about him. He had ventured out to meet the young man, wondering why someone who should have been a beacon for Heaven was stirring up so much unrest. 

He was a wonderful man. He didn't flinch from Crowley's presence, even when Crowley had revealed himself for what he was, hoping to seek out a reaction. He did, indeed, get a reaction, but it wasn't fear nor disgust. It was to inquire after Crowley's sins, as though Crowley wasn't tremendously past saving. Crowley tried to explain that he was Fallen, but Jesus simply said, "But you still have your wings."

He agreed but had said that the pain of having them blackened was pretty final. 

Crowley had sat when he was invited to, accepted the wine when it was given to him, and happily discussed philosophy and politics with the man. Jesus had Opinions, and Crowley was quick to learn the reason why for the unrest. So many people believed Jesus to be speaking God's Word, and they were very unhappy that those words did not fit the government they were so patriotic about. Jesus believed in loving everyone, of forgoing wealth, of helping refugees, protecting prostitutes, all of it—basically everything the government was against. They had a good laugh about a time Jesus lost his temper at a temple and destroyed a bunch of church merchandise in his tirade.

So, he had an ear after the man, and naturally, when he heard they were going to execute him, he had to come.

He got a sickening feeling when he saw the execution had become a spectacle. He sneered at them, petty humans, then had to do a double-take at seeing a familiar angel among the crowd.

He wondered what the angel, or Heaven in general, thought of the man. Jesus certainly hadn't kept with Heaven's usual party line. 

His curiosity won out, and he slowly approached the angel, coming up from behind.

"Come to smirk at the poor bugger, have you?" Crowley asked in the angel's ear.

Aziraphale was a lot of things, Crowley thought. The apt descriptor, perhaps, was: constant surprise. Despite that, the next would be: faithful to Heaven. Ever since Aziraphale not only gave away his sword but also told Crowley that he had—trusted the demon with information that could potentially get him in a lot of trouble, Crowley decided not to make any assumptions when it came to the angel.

Which he could see he clearly had done now when Aziraphale turned his face to him, and Crowley saw the angel was deeply troubled by the goings-on, if not also deeply uncomfortable.

"Smirk?" The angel asked. "Me?"

"Well, your lot put him on there," Crowley accused.

"I'm not consulted on policy decisions, Crawley."

"Oh, I've changed it," he told him casually. He tried to keep off Heaven's radar, so he wasn't surprised that Aziraphale didn't know of the name change.

"Change what?" Aziraphale asked, giving Crowley more attention than a moment before, where his troubled eyes were fixed on Jesus.

"My name. 'Crawl-y' just wasn't really doing it for me. It's a bit too… squirming-at-your-feet-ish."

"Well, you were a snake," Aziraphale reasoned. "So, what is it now? Mephistopheles? Asmodeus?"

Clearly, the angel didn't know Crowley, just like Crowley didn't know him.

"Crowley," he answered easily, his own eyes officially fixed on the proceedings.

Aziraphale made an approving, if not pleased, noise in reply. It was almost immediately drowned out by a loud, painful cry from Jesus, where they were nailing his wrists to the wood.

Aziraphale visibly swallowed. "Did you, uh…" the angel opened, giving Crowley a quick glance, "ever meet him?"

"Yes," Crowley replied, a bit surprised by the question. "Seemed a very bright young man." He thought back to that night and added, feeling faintly proud, "I showed him all the kingdoms of the world."

"Why?" Aziraphale asked, turning his head again to better see the demon over his shoulder.

"He's a carpenter from Galilee," Crowley shrugged. "His travel opportunities are limited."

A particularly sharp sound rang out as the Roman's large hammer hit the metal nail. Crowley couldn't help but wince sympathetically. It didn't pass his notice that Aziraphale did too.

"That has got to hurt," he stated. After having met the man himself, Crowley wasn't surprised he wasn't the government's favourite, but he didn't think any of Jesus' beliefs or opinions were anti-state enough to warrant a crucifixion. He looked around, seeing a few mourners but mostly greedy morbid voyeurs. "What was it he said that got everyone so upset?"

"'Be kind to each other'," Aziraphale promptly answered. He said it in a way he usually said prophetic things, and Crowley was briefly surprised because that meant Jesus really was one of theirs and presumably, spoke God's words.

"Oh yeah, that would do it," Crowley said mildly.

They fell quiet after that, Jesus' apparently prophetic words, _"Be kind to each other,"_ hanging around them as they watched the Romans lift Jesus and his two companions to present them high on their crosses. The words stayed hung around them for the hours they stood there, watching Jesus slowly—very slowly—die.

Staff meetings were always tedious and _boring._

Crowley had braided and put up his hair before descending into Hell, better to keep the sulfur out. Sulfur could take forever to wash out. Perhaps he should cut it, wear it short a while. He was late, and therefore, had the unfortunate consequence of being seated next to a demon that was mostly squished sewer goo and smelled of rotten onions and farts.

Crowley spent most of the meeting not breathing and debating hairstyles with himself.

"And finally, a commendation for Crawley."

"Crowley," he automatically corrected, then blinked. "Wait, what?"

"A commendation," Beelzebub said impatiently. "For your work against Heaven, the crucifixion of the Son of God."

Crowley scoffed, but he didn't get a chance to respond properly before whispers and hisses broke out among the others.

"Is he _really the_ Son of God?" one of them asked fearfully.

Everyone apparently was looking to him for the answer. 

Words got stuck in his throat. He cleared it. "A, uh… prophet, more like," he told them.

They relaxed, and Crowley debated correcting them that he didn't have anything to do with the young man's death. Ultimately, however, he took the commendation because it meant on Hell's record, he was doing good (or rather bad—being very good at being very bad), which meant by their records, he shouldn't have to return to Hell for another staff meeting for a few decades.

After all, what did it matter? The poor man was already dead.

When he returned to Earth, he tried to shake off the guilt of it. He did solemnly try.

He got drunk mostly, though. Did a few temptations and granted some desires. Mostly, he liked to focus on giving humans what they wanted, or what they thought they wanted and tried not to focus on the fact that by merely agreeing with him, being associated with him, he was dragging their souls downward. They were all harmless desires, not exactly sins, but the ripple effect could be very large and lasting. He had learned to keep track of them.

But he was distracted. Distracted by the slowly growing number of humans declaring themselves Christians, who were determined to spread the words of Jesus, and the instant and violent backlash from the government.

No, he was not actually responsible for Jesus' death, and yes, he had taken credit. Because of that, there was no way of avenging him, if he ever _lost his mind_ and tried, despite how it could both soothe his own emotions on the matter and be presented in a way that would make Hell happy. It was just… Jesus treated him with respect, and he couldn't shake it. What he could do, however, was tempt. Tempt the Romans, tempt the soldiers, tempt the harmless candlestick makers.

Or, so he had thought. He got caught up in thing of it, _emotions_ making him miss things, and the next thing he knew, he had tempted the handmaiden of an official, and all his tempting done over the last eight years rippled out, slashed, and _banged_.

And five kids were dead, their souls condemned.

Fuming, hating himself, hating Rome, hating humans, and _hating_ Jesus, Crowley threw up his hands. He decided to forget the whole lot. " _Be kind to each other_ ," he mocked and changed his course to Rome's capital where he could at least tempt humans into doing something fun.

"What have you got?" Crowley asked the barmaid of the first establishment he found that sold alcohol. "Give me a jug of whatever you think is drinkable."

"Jug of house brown," the human answered, thumping it down in front of him. "Two sesterces."

Crowley slid the coins over and moved to grab his jug and go further inside. A voice stopped him.

"Crawley—Crowley?"

Crowley looked over in surprise to find the angel Aziraphale, standing there, in a den of iniquity, looking, for all in the world, pleased to see him.

"Well," the angel smiled. He took a quick look around, as though checking no one was watching, and then moved in close to Crowley. "Fancy running into you here."

Crowley, still vaguely distracted and in his head, went ahead and poured himself a hefty amount of his jug. If the angel was here, that meant good was afoot. Probably trying to recruit more _Christians._ More talk about _Jesus_. About _love_ and _kindness_ , surrounding and suffocating Crowley as he desperately tried to pretend that he wasn't condemning the buggers by his mere presence. 

Which was probably why it strangely stung when the angel attempted to open conversation with a casual, "Still a demon, then?"

"What kind of stupid question is that," Crowley snapped. "'Still a demon?' What else am I going to be, an aardvark?"

He turned away, lifting his drink and hoping to cut the conversation off with that. The angel, however, seemed entirely unfazed and merely lifted his mug as well.

"Salutaria," the angel offered.

Crowley blinked at him, but he didn't hesitate to tap his mug against the angel's. He took a long pull.

"In Rome long?" Aziraphale asked him.

"Just nipped in for a quick temptation," he answered easily enough. Perhaps it would do him good to clean his palate of significant temptations and just do the fun ones for a while. "You?"

He had expected, _"Oh, I'm here to get a poll of the city's Christians,"_ or, _"I've been healing those wounded in the army,"_ or even, _"Just trying to dissuade humans from abhorrence such as yourself."_

The very last thing he expected was, "I thought I'd try Petronius' new restaurant. I hear he does remarkable things to oysters."

Crowley didn't think he should be surprised anymore with Aziraphale, Angel of Surprises. He had enough to think about without trying to figure out holy creatures.

"I've never eaten an oyster," he mused. In fact, he didn't even realise oysters were things one _could_ eat.

"Oh," the angel croaked. Then sounded utterly delighted as he continued, "Well, let me tempt you to—"

The word 'tempt' bristled Crowley, and he whipped around, giving the angel a crossed look. Then the angel, to Crowley's continued unsurprised-surprise, seemed to notice his misstep immediately. 

He backpedalled, "Oh, no. No, that's—that's your job, isn't it?"

Crowley leaned back to further regard him. The angel looked _embarrassed_. Crowley would be hard-pressed to ever actually call something 'adorable', but if there was anything he could privately assign the word to, it would be that angel, at that moment. Amused, Crowley continued to watch the angel squirm as he raised his drink again.

Aziraphale mirrored him, and Crowley smirked.

"How many of those have you had, _angel_?" he asked.

The angel seemed to relax some. "Oh, maybe just one or two."

"Or five?" the demon suggested.

The angel looked at him smugly. "I can sober any time I want."

"Oh? Drink enough to know that, do you?"

Aziraphale grinned. "Humans are truly creative. They flavour these things now. Here, have a taste."

He offered Crowley his drink, and even more amused, Crowley accepted it, careful not to touch his hand. He took a sniff first, smelling sweet honey, and then took a tentative sip.

He blanched. "You don't actually expect me to call this alcohol?"

"Oh, but it is," Aziraphale chuckled, taking the drink back. "And it goes excellently with cheese."

"Yeah? And what goes with oysters?"

Aziraphale made a thoughtful noise as he finished his drink, then beamed. "I haven't the foggiest. Let's go find out, shall we?"

And Crowley was finding Aziraphale himself tempting. It was hard to resist a bubbling, excited angel, with his bright smiles, bright eyes, and bright aura. Aziraphale really wasn't there for work. He, knowing full well _what_ Crowley was, really had just approached him, invited him out, was staring at him unflinchingly, ready to lead the way to liquor and _oysters_.

"Alright," Crowley agreed slowly, interested where this would lead.

"Excellent," Aziraphale declared. "Bring your jug."

And Aziraphale must have done that sobering trick he mentioned because he twirled around with much more coordination than Crowley would have assumed him able. Crowley had to rush to catch up.

The sun was setting as they hit the street, and it was a good thing Crowley had no idea what to say because he doubted he would have gotten a word in otherwise. Aziraphale was apparently no stranger in the city, seemed to know the streets very well, and entertained Crowley with a continuous commentary of his favourite things there. Most of it went over Crowley's head— he didn't care about the history in the making or the change in the culture, but Aziraphale seemed delighted by it. 

He supposed he should have been bothered that apparently, Heaven was doing very well, but he found himself simply enjoying how it made Aziraphale smile.

Upon reflection, as Aziraphale held a curtain back for him to enter the restaurant, he didn't know when he last—if he ever—saw Aziraphale smile. A real smile. Normally, it was Crowley who approached Aziraphale, and it was always during the end result of Heaven's work. Which meant it was usually when Aziraphale was shifty with troubled eyes and worry bitten lips.

"Here we are," Aziraphale sighed once they were seated. Aziraphale had ordered for them as Crowley poured them both a small drink from his jug. "So, how are things?"

Crowley clenched his jaw. "Fine," he bit out. "I surmise all is well in Heaven."

At this, Aziraphale winced. "Ah." He cleared his throat. "Well, yes, I suppose."

Crowley raised a brow.

"I don't exactly know, to be honest," Aziraphale revealed. "Everyone's rather busy—you know, with the, uh… Christians, you know. Big plans, I hear. I've heard talk it will be global."

"Oh joy," Crowley said flatly. "You don't seem too thrilled with that."

"Well," he tried to dismiss, wringing his hands in his lap. "Of course, I am. Of course. It's all… according to plan."

"The ineffable plan?" Crowley hedged.

"The… _Divine_ Plan, actually."

"'The _Divine_ Plan'?" Crowley mocked.

"Yes, that's… that's what they're calling it."

Crowley narrowed his eyes. Gone was the smiling angel and back was the one with troubled eyes. "What?" he asked slowly.

Abruptly, Aziraphale huffed and deflated. "It's only been _eight years_ , and I'm beginning to think they've forgotten everything that Jesus fellow had told them. I feel so… ineffective. I just can't get them to _stop_ with the violence."

"The Romans? I doubt even you could do that, _angel_."

"The _Christians_ ," Aziraphale corrected. "They're calling Jesus a martyr, and seem set on revenge like they don't actually know what 'martyr' means."

The angel sounded scolding and scandalised at the same time, and Crowley had to hide a grin behind his mug.

It was occurring to him, though, that perhaps he wasn't the only one who had had a tough go of it lately. Jesus had been a spark in the world, a special soul that accepted everyone and could even make Crowley feel like perhaps there was hope. That maybe it didn't have to be all fire and brimstone.

And then it occurred to Crowley: "You _knew_ him, didn't you?"

Aziraphale blinked at him. "Pardon?"

" _You_ were the angel assigned to him, weren't you? You were behind all his miracles— _you_ helped raise him."

Aziraphale seemed to flush. "Well… he was my assignment, yes."

"He was your… and you had to sit back and watch them kill him."

Sadness flowed like an odour from every inch of the angel. He gulped and looked away.

There was a spot inside Crowley, this tangled mess of snarling bitterness that constantly complained about the unfairness of his Falling, and he felt it rise up like bile, forcing words unbidden from him.

" _How dare they_."

Aziraphale bristled then. "It's the Divine Plan, Crowley. I cannot interfere."

Crowley had a _lot_ he could say about that, but he didn't. He just gulped down his drink in one go and poured himself another, a significantly larger another. He grumbled under his breath as he threw that back too.

When he slammed it down on the table, fully intending for a third, he found his hand gently covered by Aziraphale's. The angel was touching him, actually touching him, looking understanding and comforting.

"Humans are quite creative and clever," the angel said quietly. "Our food should be ready shortly. I promise you'll enjoy it, my dear."

Crowley swallowed, accepting this entirely different distraction from the back-buzzing of emotion he had been dealing with lately.

"Did you just call me 'dear'?" he asked, trying to sound scathing.

Aziraphale merely smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> Please forgive (and feel free to point out) any typos. This is a no beta work.  
> I am a socially awkward depressive, but I will do my best to reply to all comments, so please let me know what you think! Thank you so much for reading!!


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